First
by fufulupin
Summary: Oneshot. Maureen thinks about a crucial first in her relationship with Joanne. Yet more Mojo fluff from the mind of a very sleepy human being. Enjoy.


Disclaimer: Nope. Not mine. I don't think anyone's ever called me Jonathon in my life, so…

A/N: Oh, look. Another one. You guys getting sick of me yet? Heh, seriously, I'm beginning to doubt my ability to write anything else. Maybe I'll try a Mark ficlet next time. He's actually my favorite character. Believe it or not, I originally _hated _Maureen. Oh, how time—and several trips inside a character's head—will change things like that.

I still remember the first time I stayed over at Joanne's apartment.

If she heard me say that, her dirty little mind would immediately jump to the conclusion that I was recalling the first time we slept together—in the sense of sex, of course. Hmph. Shows how well she really knows me, doesn't it?

I love the woman to death, but I swear, she gives me next to no credit sometimes.

No, the occurrence I'm referring to is _not _our first roll between the sheets. Not that that wasn't memorable. But the time I'm recalling was somehow…

Well, this is going to blow my bad-girl reputation to kibbles n bits.

The time I'm thinking of was better even than that first "first" of ours.

God, Joanne would be laughing if she was inside my head right now. Guess this is just another reason to be thankful that all she can see is the outside-Maureen and not the Maureen I so often sit on. Although, it strikes me every once in a while, that Maureen could probably do with a nice breath of fresh air every now and again.

Not that I'll ever let her out. It's just a thought.

Anyway. The first. It was—God, it had to be a year ago, at least. Longer, probably. It's funny; even with all the people around me running out of time, I always feel like the years are standing still.

I was still "with" Mark at this point. I say it that way because, by this point, I hadn't technically been with Mark in over a month. Not since meeting Joanne, anyway, and probably before. It was no secret that my relationship with him wasn't all it was cracked up to be.

Joanne and were not, for this reason—me and Mark, that is—together. We were, however, becoming closer than I would ever have expected. It didn't seem to matter than we had less than nothing in common, or that she was so conservative and—dare I say?—scared, while I was…well, as insane as ever. I'm not afraid to admit that. Being a lunatic is one of the things I love about being me.

I knew she was into me. I knew it early on. The thought didn't disturb me in the least, that this little girl pretending so hard to be a grown-up could ever be interested in crazy, fuck-the-rules Maureen.

What did disturb me, at least a little bit, is the way I would catch myself looking at her. Thinking about her. The way her face would cross into my mind at the most inopportune times. And, most of all, the way the thoughts and the memories and the little shivers that accompanied every brush of her hand against my arm seemed so natural.

That was weird. For someone who has spent her entire life flirting with—as Mark always puts it—anything that moves, that was weird. And the fact that it was weird was weird in and of itself. And—well, now, I'm starting to confuse myself. Moving on.

Joanne always tells me I have a tangent personality. I used to think she was teasing; now, I'm not so sure.

The first time she invited me back to her apartment, I declined. I know, I know—me, of all people, saying no to a friendly invitation. She seemed to understand though, as she carefully tucked her crestfallen expression away to where she thought I wouldn't see it. That's the first thing that drew me to Joanne: she understands almost everything, when it comes to basic emotions. It's only when jealousy gets in the way that her ability to comprehend the things in my head better than I can tends to fade.

Anyway, our friendship continued to grow. I was with her almost every night, in some way or another. We'd "happen" to run into each other at a bar, or a coffee shop. Eventually, we gave up pretenses altogether and started making definite plans, if only for the sake of our collective sanity.

Two weeks after her first attempt at asking me to her place, she tried again. It was adorable, the way she ducked her head and inspected the table. If I hadn't known better, I would have thought she was asking her empty coffee mug if it wanted to go home with her.

I'm still not sure exactly why I said yes. I couldn't tell you what specifically had changed in those fourteen days. And, to tell the honest-to-God truth, I really don't think it matters.

What matters is that I followed her into a cab that night. A cab which drove us half-way across town to her apartment. I remember thinking, _Thank God this woman is a lawyer, or she'd never be able to afford all these trips to come see me. _

We started off in her living room. She had offered me a drink, which I had politely turned down. If I'd wanted to pour more liquids down my throat, I would have stayed at the coffee bar. She laughed when I said that, a short burst of nervous laughter that reminded me of a small dog. I grinned back; the ice was broken.

I hate ice. It only gets in the way.

Conversation stumbled along, never staying on one neat path. We'd be debating some topic or another, and something she said would remind me of cheese, and the next thing you knew, we were bantering over who had the scarier great-aunt. (My aunt Margaret won, by the way. Just in case you were curious.)

I don't know how we found our way into her room. I think it had something to do with me asking to look at a photo album so I could compare her family with my own properly. Either way, we both ended up curled on her bed, shoes off, lying on our backs. The conversation slowed to a crawl, with me speaking and her just making little noises of encouragement.

I think it took me a full twenty minutes to realize she'd dozed off on me. If she'd been anyone else, I probably would have taken offense, but it's damn near impossible to be angry with someone when she's curled against your side like a living body-pillow. I smiled at her, taking in the innocence that was so difficult to see when she was awake, and gently moved an arm around her.

Joanne scooted closer to me, mumbling something about fairies and John Travolta. I made a mental note not to ask. Ever.

She's sweet when she sleeps. There's no arguing and no trying to get the upper hand. Her eyes don't have that steely glint when they're closed. Even her breathing sounds less like a war she's fighting with Mother Nature.

I remember watching her, turning on my side and sliding the other arm around her so one hand rested on her hip and the other traced tentative circles on her back. She whimpered in her sleep and nestled closer. That's another thing she is in sleep that you'd never notice if you only saw her during the day: vulnerable. It made me wonder, at the time, what had happened to her as a child. Something had obviously been hurt a long time ago.

I guess that was before I really thought about what it must have been like for her to grow up "different". She had told me early on that she always knew she liked women, but I never realized how hard that had to have been, groping her way through high school without a single hand to hold onto. It must have felt like crawling through an unfamiliar dark room, feeling trapped on all sides and yet unbearably alone.

I wonder now if that's where her paranoia comes from. Maybe I should stop riding her about that so much.

I don't remember falling asleep. I know I was watching her one moment, feeling her body move against mine and mentally comparing her to anyone else I'd ever lay beside. She wasn't like any of them; not Mark, not Jimmy from the ninth grade—no one. She was soft and small and her face was nuzzled into my chest, one hand gripping my shirt so tightly that I was almost afraid to move away. As if, my inching backward just the slightest bit, I'd somehow shatter her. As if I was the only thing keeping her safe and warm and—

_Loved._

I remember that word echoing in my mind. I remember it bouncing around off of all the other observations—_She's so warm; why is she shaking?; She smells nice. Do I smell like this to her?_—and I remember recognizing it cautiously, giving it a tiny nod before leaning back and letting it go on its way.

I don't remember falling asleep, but I do remember waking up. There are no curtains in Joanne's room—strange, really, since she seems like the type who would take every precaution imaginable for the place where she sleeps—so there was an easy stream of sunshine on my face. My eyelids felt cozy; I never wanted to open them.

Even cozier was the way two thin arms pressed against me. I remember thinking that it wasn't Mark, it _couldn't _be Mark. Mark never held me like this, not even once.

I remember the scent of something intricate and intangible. I remember the low groaning sound of a waking cat. I remember opening my eyes a sliver, just enough to see Joanne untangle herself from me enough to stretch. Then her arms wound back around my waist and she was resting her cheek against my chest again, making little murmuring noises. It was the best sound I had ever heard.

Joanne doesn't know I remember any of this. She doesn't think about it, I guess, that I could actually recall something beyond passion and kisses and moans. She doesn't give me enough credit, like I said.

Sometimes, when she's not here—when we've fought and she's retreated to the couch, or when she's off on one of her rare business trips—I bring this memory into the light. I know the others would all laugh at me if they knew, but it's how I get through the nights when I can't be with her. It's how I remember to keep breathing. I just think about the first, and I remember exactly why I love her. It isn't because of her strength or her charm or her possessive need to always have me there, her rules, her way.

It's because of the person no one else sees. The one no one else knows. The little girl who rolled into a tiny ball and just let me hold her. I don't see that girl enough anymore.

I should talk to her about that.


End file.
